


Broke

by AeeDee



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A close call compels Dick to reflect on the events of Batman RIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broke

It starts slowly, creeps up like the gradual filling of a well. There’s the tension of feeling his chest compressed just a bit too tight, and the ache of the smile he wears on his face, the way it pulls at his skin. It’s the way he has to fight between the smile and the gradual heaviness in his eyes, like they don’t want to keep themselves open anymore. Like he doesn’t want to see anything, to look at anyone; he just wants to sink into the floor and vanish from sight for a while.

But he’s here, and so is he. The man of the hour. Bruce Wayne, alive to fight another day. To take to the streets and triumph over evil. So he believes. So they all assume.

Dick had spent several minutes tracing the outline of the bullet where it tore through Bruce’s uniform. The blood had long since been washed off, but the suit had been deemed ruined and so it was to be discarded. He stole it before it could be thrown away, because he thought it might mean something, thought it might give him some moment of revelation. Thought it might alleviate something he felt - those feelings that were so heavy - if he could see the outline of the bullet and trace it with his fingers and understand where it went through and exactly how it pierced the man’s chest.

But he’d seen it, felt the fabric, breathed in the scent of the soap residue from washing it clean and the reinforced lining that still kept the lingering scent of Bruce’s sweat and he realized it’d never do any good at all.

So he returned the suit to where it’d been, piled it back haphazardly on the desk for Alfred to see it and throw it away. The way Dick should’ve been able to. To throw away the thought and let it go, the way he let go of so many other things.

But it was too soon. It hit too close to home. The memory was still too fresh.

Still is.

The memory of when it wasn't so simple. When Bruce couldn't just pull the bullet out and walk away.

What it felt like to spend days and nights in mourning. The strange sensation of controlling his sniffles and sobs in front of others, a restrained sorrow until he could retreat to an empty room and collapse in a fit of uncontrollable sobs and muffled, angry shouts, yelling with his jacket pressed over his face.

There was a particularly bad night. The night when he retreated to the farthest room he could find in Wayne Manor - where he knew no one would come searching for him - and yelled and broke a lamp that had the misfortune of being near him. He still recalls the image of his hand shaking as he withdrew it away, in a surreal awe of what he’d just done, like he was watching someone else. Because that lamp wasn’t his to break; it was Bruce’s. And he’d stared at the pile of shattered glass and ceramic and cried even more, cried until his throat was hoarse, until he couldn’t make a sound anymore.

When they told him Bruce had died, he felt his world was ending. Everything came crashing down.

“We never talked about it, you know,” Dick suddenly says.

In this room, broad daylight streaming in through the windows with just him and Bruce, as he’s watching the man button up his shirt, obscuring his stitched and bandaged wound from view. Bruce doesn’t ask what he means, but the brief flash of a bewildered look on his face says it all. His eyes, inquisitive. His body language, reserved as always. He’s not being rude; he’s waiting.

Dick, unlike so many others, knows the difference between when Bruce is being dismissive and ignoring someone, and when he’s waiting to hear the rest of the story. Dick, unlike so many others, has the luxury of being able to say that Bruce listens to him. Listens to almost every word.

“When you died,” Dick says. He even gives a slight shrug, “and, you know… just came back.”

“I was displaced by the-“

“I know,” Dick’s quick to cut him off, because he knows Bruce is going to dance around the point. And for once, that’s not okay. Not right now. Any other time but this one.

Bruce is sending him a stern look, a look of contemplation where his eyes are stoic and his mouth is in a tense line. He’s offended at being interrupted, but he won’t say anything about it. Because Dick knows how rude that was, just now. And they both understand that, and how important a situation is whenever Dick feels a need to step on Bruce’s words.

“We never talked about it, you know? Not really.” He lets his words linger, making an effort to keep his face as calm as possible as he looks at Bruce, watches him for more of a reaction. Nothing yet. He’s not entirely surprised, because sometimes Bruce needs a little more prodding. A little more pressure.

There are many that don’t completely understand how Bruce functions. Whenever Dick announces that he intends to “talk” to the man, the most common response is, “But you know Bruce doesn’t talk.”

But that’s a lie. Or a misconception. Either way…

Bruce talks to Dick. He talks to him often. It’s all about listening properly. Reading signals. Communicating with body language and shifts in his spoken tone and the flicker of something dark materializing in his eyes. It’s the look Bruce is sending him now, the gradual realization of what Dick is bringing to the surface.

It’s the way Bruce tenses up, stiffens his shoulders when Dick says, “I missed you.”

It’s Bruce’s slow nod, a respectful reassurance that he ceases when he notices the fragile crack in Dick’s voice when he says, “I _really_ missed you.”

Dick’s nodding back at him, and there’s that same smile again. The false one he wears, the one he wears to reassure everyone. The smile that hurts to make, because it’s a mask for his pain, it’s a band-aid to cover the wound until he can heal it properly elsewhere, some other time. Some other time, because Dick never comes first.

Dick the protector, the caregiver, the healer, the friend, the brother. The support system. Dick, the _everything_ , everything he can be for everyone else.

Dick reaches out, reaches for Bruce’s hand and he does nothing to resist it. His hand is cold and heavy in Dick’s grip, clumsy and awkward as always when Dick threads their fingers together. “I cried over you,” Dick says, and that smile is staying put, stubborn and proud as he is. Weary and frail as it is, heavy as his eyes are, self-aware as he is that he’s definitely not fooling Bruce at all. It’s a habit; old habits are hard to break. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says.

“I,” and Dick pauses, his eyes lost for a moment as that catches him off-guard. “I appreciate that,” and his smile’s fading into an uneasy grin. One false expression to another. He squeezes Bruce’s hand, even playfully swaying it a little, “I don’t know if you… understand,” and he makes direct eye contact now, staring at him intently. “What that felt like.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches tight. Dick reads a thousand emotions in that gesture, but he doesn't press him.

“I thought I would die,” Dick even forces a small laugh, and it’s almost wicked, bizarre in this quiet room. “But you know,” he gives a slow shrug, “I had Damian, and others to consider. So I got out of bed each day, I made myself look nice and I wore your suit for them.”

Bruce says nothing. Dick expects that.

“I wore that damn suit every day, that fucking,” he pauses, closing his eyes in a moment of self-control and restraint, “the cowl and the cape, just like I was you. I wore that suit every day, I pretended to be you for everyone else out there, and every night I came home and cried for you.”

Bruce’s mouth opens slightly, but there are no words. Not yet. Dick expects that, too.

“And when you came back, I didn’t know how to feel anymore.” He sends another smile, and nods, just once. “I still don’t.”

“Dick,” finally, an attempt. It’s empty. Just for now.

“I don’t know what to think,” he’s shaking his head, and he’s holding onto Bruce’s hand so tightly, tight enough so that Bruce feels some of the pain, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. “I was kind of angry, actually.” And there’s another bitter, hollow laugh. “But that’s immature, isn’t it.”

“Dick-“

“I’m too old to be a spoiled kid, right.”

“Dick.”

But he’s not listening. Not right now. Because he’s still speaking. Venting. “But there’s something I’d like to ask for, if you could just-” and he’s shaking, suddenly like the moment before a lock breaks, the rattling of that well that’s filling up and compressing his chest. “If you could just-” He’s holding on to Bruce’s hand with both of his hands now, holding it like it’s something sacred, close and massaging against his fingers with his own. “I just-“

And the well spills over. It’s a series of broken sounds, a muffled choking sound he stifles defensively, a sudden seizing and painful tension in his chest and the crippling twist in his gut. It’s the sudden pain and ache of being alive, every inch of his skin on fire, his nerves lit up and scattered and he’s-

He’s back in that place. In that empty room, sitting on the edge of his bed, grabbing the nearest something - the jacket he’d discarded only minutes before - and he’s pressing it over his mouth and he’s screaming into it with the full force of his being.

He’s just a broken boy, screaming and crying in an empty room.

He’s just-

He’s crying before he’s aware of it, when he blinks and realizes his eyes are spilling over with tears. And he’s angry - he’s absolutely furious - because he didn’t say what he needed to say yet, because he’s too choked up now, because his emotions rebelled and took him to a dark place he wasn’t prepared for. Because he’s just an immature son, a disgraced warrior that wanted to quit, the son that wanted to dishonor the father by mourning him instead of being the good soldier and stepping up to take his place.

Except that Bruce was never his father, and he never pretended to be a good son. But who understands that, anyway.

He’s crying faintly, finally letting go of Bruce’s hand to instead wipe at his eyes and make the attempt to compose himself. He’s being watched - he knows he is, because he always is - but in some ways it’s just like breathing. Concerned Bruce, aware and perceptive, taking in the scene and witnessing something that’s quickly spiraled out of his control. Restrained Bruce, tense and reserved, attempting to no doubt find a way out of the situation to allow Dick his time alone to fight his own demons.

And Dick’s wanting to curse - if only he could speak right now - because he can’t force out the words he desperately wanted to say.

“Dick,” and there it is. The statement that begins the farewell, before Bruce retreats and leaves him be. Leaves him to fight this battle and return another day.

Just as always. _You never change-_

“I understand.”

Dick’s wiping at the side of his face, pausing to look at him again. To see the darkness in Bruce’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders, and the hesitant way his hand is hovering in the air, like he feels compelled to reach out and offer some comfort, not understanding how.

“It’s a thought I’ve considered.”

_Bruce._

“What would happen, if you were to die in the line of duty.” He even pauses. “I’ve allowed myself to imagine that situation.”

Why didn’t that cross his mind.

“I have been fortunate enough to never experience that loss as a reality. But... I have the possibilities memorized and imagined in my mind.” For the first time during their conversation, his eyes fall away. “I experienced them in the most realistic way I could.”

“But you-“

“Because of what I experienced in those… musings, not a day passes, that I don’t live with that concern.”

“If I died,” Dick whispers, his voice almost gone. “You would…” and he realizes it, his eyes widening with a thought that seems so obvious it hurts to say out loud. “You would miss me.”

“Irreparably.”

Dick intends to respond, but his attempt at speech is rendered ineffectual by his trembling bottom lip, and the shivering sensation moving through his chest. He’s opening his arms before he thinks about it, taking a step forward and he gasps, startled when his gesture is intercepted, strong arms seizing and pulling him in, and he’s suddenly pressed against Bruce in a tight embrace.

A desperate, almost demanding hand is running through his hair, and Dick’s crying softly - God knows what he’s feeling right now - and he’s breathing slower and doing his best to press soft kisses to Bruce’s shoulder, in hopes that he can feel them, that he’s aware of them. Because God-

God, Bruce.

“Dick,” Bruce finally asks, as they start to relax against each other. “You wanted to tell me something.”

“I don’t remember,” Dick sighs.

“If I could… do something for you.”

Dick nestles in against him, his face pressed into his neck and he’s feeling like a spoiled child again. So spoiled, now, because that thought comes back to mind, immature and vindictive as ever. So childish, now. “I wanted to ask if you could avoid getting shot.”

“Specifically that,” Bruce questions.

"Don’t die,” Dick finally says.

“Is that an order.”

Dick pauses, as if to think about it, his hand idly trailing up Bruce’s chest. He rests it over his heart. “Please.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. Not in words. He communicates in a different way. He turns in towards Dick, kissing him on the face, just below his eyes. He readjusts one of the arms he has wound around his shoulder, and after a lingering look between them, leans in again to kiss him on the mouth.

Dick nods. “Thank you.”

Bruce pulls him in closer.


End file.
